


the stone inside you still

by littledust



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Internalized Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 18:39:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledust/pseuds/littledust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana's hookups with Brittany might have started like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the stone inside you still

**Author's Note:**

> You do the math, you expect the trouble.  
> \--”Seaside Improvisation,” Richard Siken
> 
> Title from the same poem.

"I'd never want to go to an all-women's college," Quinn says one day in the locker room, which surprises Santana. There are times when she thinks that Quinn belongs in a convent. "I mean, what if my roommate was a lesbian? _Gross_ ," she continues, wrinkling her nose in a way that should make her ugly but instead makes her look like a kitten.

"What if she was a good actor?" Brittany asks, which is actually one of her less bizarre non sequiturs, although Santana wants to know where the hell she ever heard the word "thespian." Brittany's vocabulary is not what you would call expansive.

"You know that weird Asian Goth? I bet she's a dyke," Santana says, because there's no graceful way to steer a conversation away from ragging on lesbians without looking like one herself. And she's not. So what if she enjoyed herself that time she made out with Brittany to score some of the good booze? Whatever, that party needed livening up anyway. It's not her fault that high school boys can't kiss for shit and she never knows what to do with her hands while they're fumbling against her. That doesn't make her gay, that makes her too classy for McKinley High.

"I bet Berry wishes she could make out with her," giggles Quinn, returning to her favorite target with relish. Honestly, girl has a fixation.

"I made out in a 7-11 once" is Brittany's final contribution to the conversation before practice begins.

*

"Now touch her boobs."

Santana breaks off her lip-lock with Brittany to glare at Jake, captain of the swim team and _very_ cute senior, according to all of the girls worth anything at McKinley. "Taking us to Breadstix means you get to watch us make out. Getting to comment on these bitches--" her hand gesture either indicates her breasts or the pair of Cheerios on his bed-- "is not part of the deal. Comprende?"

"Shutting up now."

Santana turns her attention back to Brittany, who smirks at her. Brittany is enough of a space cadet that most people think she's never mean, but she's been friends with Santana long enough to appreciate when she gets her bitch on. It's pretty hot, actually, and Santana finds herself taking Jake's advice in spite of herself. Brittany has amazing boobs, a nice firm handful. Brittany whimpers when she pinches a nipple through her Cheerios top, so Santana runs her tongue down her neck, thrilling at the sound. She likes it. They've only kissed up until now, although "only kissed" doesn't mean much of anything when Santana Lopez is in charge.

Across the room comes the soft hiss of a zipper. Santana is torn: it’s a power trip to see Captain Jake with his dick in his hand, jerking off like his life depends on it, but it's distracting her from the fun she's having now. The way he's staring, mouth open like a dead fish, kills the mood.

"Show's over," Santana declares, and Brittany nods, though one of her hands squeezes Santana's waist ever so slightly.

"Bitch!" Jake protests.

"Tell your blue balls to lay down more money on dinner next time. We're out." And with that, Santana saunters off, Brittany's pinkie curled around hers.

*

Even with a gun to her head, Santana could probably still place the blame on Brittany for what happens next. Sans a ride home from the illustrious Captain Jerk Off, they just walk to Brittany's house, which is closer. As usual, Brittany's parents aren't home. "Too bad I gots to sleep after gettin' my food and my mack on, otherwise we could throw a party," Santana observes, yawning.

"We should sleep," agrees Brittany.

Thing is (although Santana will deny it forever), she knows exactly what Brittany means. She meets her halfway when Brittany kisses her in the kitchen, too eager to wait for the bedroom, or maybe it's just that she doesn't care. At fifteen, Santana considers herself a kissing expert, but it’s always different with Brittany: Santana is forever leaning too far left or right and kissing the corner of her mouth. Every time she gets it wrong, something inside her shivers in delight.

"I could stay awake a little longer," Santana says, breathless, and then she dares to balance herself on the tops of Brittany's feet, leaning up to kiss her a second time.

Brittany giggles and answers, "Okay." Then she starts walking Santana backwards, her arms securely around Santana's waist. Even if her eyes were closed, Santana would know they were headed to the couch in the living room, lumpy yet comfortable with your body lined up the right way. Her eyes are open, though, focused on the delight in Brittany's eyes, the mischievous tilt of her smile.

All of a sudden Santana is shaking, her pulse a loud and unsteady drum, so she detaches herself from Brittany just before they hit the couch and whips off her own top. That's sexy, right? That's what a future Cheerio captain would do. Now she can't look at Brittany, though, just the goosebumps popping up on her too-small breasts. When she hunches her shoulders inward, her breasts press together and look a little bigger, at least.

"When you stand up, it's easier for my face to reach your face," Brittany says, hands wrapping around Santana's shoulders to tug her closer and then down, so they're sitting on the couch. "Do you not want to make out? We can watch a movie."

Brittany's question is the last variable in an equation that Santana refuses to solve. She doesn't ask questions of herself, doesn't chide herself for her discomfort whenever a guy touches her, doesn't name the ache between her legs or in her chest. ( _Brittany._ ) It's not safe next to Brittany, mouth reddened from previous kissing, not safe at all when her Cheerios sweater lies discarded on the floor.

"We can put on a movie _and_ make out," Santana says anyway, because if she's not safe with Brittany, she's not safe anywhere, and that's a reality she can't (won't) even think about.

Later, with the last of her clothes gone and Brittany's head resting on one of her thighs, Santana's eyes slip shut. She's already falling asleep. Brittany mumbles something and shifts, soft strands of hair tickling her leg. Santana wonders if her first time--her real first time with a guy--will be like this was, hands and mouths and nerves. She wonders if trust will temper the fear; feels her heart sink in response.


End file.
